


far and near

by brinnanza



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, Pet Names, so soft u guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: There are plenty of other people in the park, parents with children, young lovers and old ones, dog walkers and joggers, but Aziraphale finds it very difficult to care about anything outside of the tangle of their bodies. He might have worried about ethereal attention once, but sunlight and wine both hum in his veins, and all he can muster is lazy contentment.





	far and near

**Author's Note:**

> some more soft soft fluff, written for [this prompt](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/9084.html?thread=125564#cmt125564) on the onthedisc dw comm. title comes from queen's "calling all girls".

The sun is high and bright overhead, the late August weather giving summer’s warmth one last go before it tips into autumn. Beneath the canopy of a large shade tree in St. James, Crowley and Aziraphale lie sprawled together on one of Aziraphale’s old tartan blankets. A picnic hamper sits in the grass a little ways away beside a worn copy of Shakespeare’s collected sonnets, plucked from Aziraphale’s hands when Crowley’s patience for poetry had worn thin. 

Crowley has draped himself atop Aziraphale in the book’s stead, sunglasses and jacket both long abandoned in concession to the weather. His face is pressed against Aziraphale’s neck, dropping idle little kisses like he can only go so long without Aziraphale’s skin against his lips. He’s gone languid in the heat, contorting himself in ways that should not be possible for the number of vertebrae he allegedly has - but then Crowley has never cared much for rules.

There are plenty of other people in the park, parents with children, young lovers and old ones, dog walkers and joggers, but Aziraphale finds it very difficult to care about anything outside of the tangle of their bodies. He might have worried about ethereal attention once, but sunlight and wine both hum in his veins, and all he can muster is lazy contentment.

Crowley shifts up a little to press kisses along the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, and Aziraphale tips his head back to allow him access. He can feel the broad spread of Crowley’s grin against his skin, can feel the white hot corona of something very nearly divine radiating off of Crowley like a supernova, like Tadfield a hundred times over. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispers just below Aziraphale’s ear. He scatters more light, there-and-gone busses across Aziraphale’s cheek, on his forehead, the tip of his nose. “Darling,” he continues, between the litany of kisses. “Sweetheart. Dove.”

Aziraphale smiles, one hand drifting along the knobs of Crowley’s spine. He wonders if Crowley remembers, all those millennia ago, a little white bird with an olive branch clutched in its beak, Noah’s messenger of peace. “Dove?”

Crowley pulls back to look at him, eyes gone liquid gold in the light of the afternoon. “Do you not like it?”

“I do like it,” Aziraphale reassures him before his expression can go somber with uncertainty. He’s got it backwards, Aziraphale thinks, which one of them brought proof a new beginning, but Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to deny Crowley even this. He brings his other hand up to cup Crowley’s face, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone. “I do. Say it again.”

“My dove,” Crowley murmurs. He dips down to kiss Aziraphale, slow and sweet and deep, and the flood waters recede.


End file.
